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Dark Matter: New Poems
Dark Matter: New Poems
Dark Matter: New Poems
Ebook102 pages47 minutes

Dark Matter: New Poems

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In this major new book of poems, her seventh, Robin Morgan rewards us with the award-winning mastery we've come to expect from her poetry. Her gaze is unflinching, her craft sharp, her mature voice rich with wry wit, survived pain, and her signature chord: an indomitable celebration of life. This powerful collection contains the now-famous poems Morgan reads in her TED Talk--viewed online more than a million times and translated into 24 languages. Dark Matter is an unforgettable book.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 1, 2018
ISBN9781925581461
Dark Matter: New Poems
Author

Robin Morgan

Award-winning poet, novelist, journalist, and feminist leader Robin Morgan has published more than twenty books, including the now-classic anthologies Sisterhood Is Powerful and Sisterhood Is Global and the bestselling The Demon Lover: The Roots of Terrorism. Her work has been translated into thirteen languages, among them Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Persian. A recipient of honors including a National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writing Fellowship, and former editor in chief of Ms., Morgan founded the Sisterhood Is Global Institute, and with Jane Fonda and Gloria Steinem, cofounded the Women’s Media Center. She writes and hosts Women’s Media Center Live with Robin Morgan, a weekly program with a global audience on iTunes and WMCLive.com—her commentaries legendary, her guests ranging from grassroots activists to Christiane Amanpour, Anita Hill, and President Jimmy Carter.

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    Book preview

    Dark Matter - Robin Morgan

    I.

    Doing the Blood Work

    The Magician and The Magician’s Assistant

    I’ve had me up my sleeve

    I’ve pulled me from my hat

    I’ve planted myself in the audience

    as the patsy I dare to decipher my tricks—

    safe I can never see through me.

    The Magician and The Magician’s Assistant—

    I’ve been both for so long.

    Introducing myself with a smile and a flair

    and a white-gloved bow to applause. Then

    making myself disappear.

    Well, I can tell you I’m done

    dodging knives flung at my head,

    done being folded into cramped crates,

    sawed into pieces again and again. I am done,

    in short, with being The Magician’s Assistant.

    From here on in, I need no assistant,

    no props, no stage, no audience.

    From here on in, all that’s left

    is The Magician.

    Or so I thought.

    That was before I could comprehend

    that I’m also done flinging the knives,

    bowing, smiling, drowning

    in chains upside down, done

    holding my breath.

    So nothing is left to perform now.

    Sorry to disappoint.

    I have my own bare hands full

    grasping how

    from here on in, all that’s left is the magic.

    Barbarina’s Cavatina

    Such anguish over a lost pin,

    a common though useful fastener.

    Surely a petty tragedy,

    humorous even, hardly

    worthy of the minor key.

    Yet Mozart knew it as a common grief,

    the loss of something ordinary—a father’s kiss,

    an unsent letter—something small

    we search for, as if that might have held

    the fragments of a life together, after all.

    Doing the Blood Work

    1. The Inheritance

    Most family truths lie audibly unsaid

    and I, a child who probed to no avail,

    learned any who could answer me were dead.

    For years, through dimming hope lit by bright dread,

    I staggered alone along abandoned trails,

    till I ceased caring. Then of course, news came. Unsaid

    though, any testament except half-lies, spoon fed

    by two half-brothers, new-found, who wore my smile.

    I cared again. Yet they were true sons of our undead

    father, who’d rutted my mother in a ghostly bed.

    A secret child, to father and sons, required denial

    of what they dared not know. Still, truth’s unsaid

    the whole world over; everyone has bled

    their part; how else but numb can the heart prevail?

    So my twice-lost half-blood kin claimed, dead

    to untold truths from which lifelong they’d fled.

    Many die out their days this way and will

    their children’s truths in turn to lie unsaid.

    But I’m done caring who lies living, who lies dead.

    2. Not By Halves

    Do two half brothers make one whole?

    I thought they might. I thought

    this meeting, late in life, was like a minor miracle.

    I’d learn so many things! But not what I expected.

    One brother, middle child, stalks his life

    famished for the father he disappointed

    despite all he tried. So he beat ploughshares

    into swords, grew sons who are religious warriors.

    The other, the youngest, our father’s favorite,

    reenacts the tearless manhood he’d learned

    so well, emotions stored inside a citadel despite

    his music’s artistry that blurred my seeing him for tears.

    Civilized, intelligent, educated men, neither

    was prepared for the elder sister whose existence

    they’d discovered decades earlier and had

    pursued but briefly, fearful and half-hearted.

    Our father dead now, everyone spoke

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